Mission Without Drift
Weeks of Prayer have always held a special place in my heart. Much of my ministry has unfolded on school campuses—boarding schools, day academies, and local church schools—and there is something sacred about setting aside time to listen, worship, and be recalibrated together. It is often in these moments that we remember just how blessed we are to work and worship in environments where faith is spoken openly and prayer is natural.
Following a thoughtful reflection on mission from yesterday’s message, it is fitting to turn our attention to something quieter, subtler, and perhaps more dangerous—mission drift. Drift rarely announces itself. It does not usually come with rebellion or defiance. More often, it comes through neglect—through losing direction while still believing we are moving forward.
When I first thought about the word drift, my mind went to driftwood. Anyone who has spent time along the shores of our lakes has seen it—bleached, barkless, worn smooth by water and time. Driftwood did not begin by drifting. It began rooted, standing, growing, and bearing fruit. Drift happened later.
Most driftwood comes from softwood trees—pine, spruce, cedar—trees with wide but shallow root systems. When undercurrents erode the soil beneath them, they topple, float away, and eventually wash ashore. Hardwoods, with deeper roots, rarely drift. The difference is not strength, but depth.
Scripture uses similar imagery. Psalm 1 describes the blessed person as “a tree planted by the rivers of water.” Yet even trees planted near water can drift if their roots do not go deep. Drift is not rebellion. Rebellion is rowing against the current. Drift is falling into it and letting it carry you wherever it will.
In the life of the church, Satan rarely begins with corporate drift. He starts with individuals. Personal drift eventually becomes institutional drift.
So, what causes mission drift?
We know our mission. Christ made it clear in Matthew 28:18–20. Paul reinforces it in 2 Corinthians 5:17–21, reminding us that we are ministers of reconciliation—ambassadors of Christ, not administrators of religion. Ambassadors carry a message. They represent a kingdom not their own.
Yet Scripture gives us sobering examples of faithful people who drifted—not through outright apostasy, but through compromise. As I read through the Old Testament, I am repeatedly struck by the phrase used to describe many of Israel’s kings: “He did what was right in the eyes of the Lord… nevertheless, the high places were not taken away.”
Asa. Jehoshaphat. Joash. Amaziah. Uzziah. Jotham. Good kings. Faithful kings. Obedient kings—except they left the high places intact. Only a few—most notably Hezekiah and Josiah—removed them completely.
The high places mattered because they represented proximity to compromise. Israel worshiped God in locations previously used for pagan worship. It was not immediate apostasy—it was gradual normalization. Familiarity bred curiosity. Curiosity weakened vigilance. Drift followed.
Israel was worshiping God while standing too close to what opposed Him. High places create vulnerability, not sudden failure.
Balaam understood this well. When he could not curse Israel directly, he succeeded by bringing pagan influence close enough to awaken curiosity. What force could not accomplish, proximity did.
The question for us is uncomfortable but necessary: What are our high places?
Sometimes they are subtle. Sometimes they are respectable. Sometimes they are even religious.
It may be pride in accomplishment. It may be programs replacing prayer. It may be activity substituting intimacy. It may be legalism, believing our effort appeases God. Or liberalism, redefining grace until it excuses what Scripture does not. Drift happens when we substitute motion for dependence.
Scripture offers a powerful antidote.
In 2 Kings 4, we meet a widow—part of a prophetic household—whose life has collapsed. Her husband is dead. Her sons are about to be taken. When Elisha asks her what she has left, she replies: “Nothing… except a jar of oil.”
The Hebrew word for “jar” in this passage is used only once in the Old Testament. It refers not to a storage vessel, but a personal flask. The Septuagint goes even further to say—the oil she used to anoint herself. Her last possession was not public or impressive. It was personal.
That small flask—four or five inches tall—became the source of abundance after God intervened. The oil flowed until there were no more vessels to receive it.
The lesson is unmistakable. The solution to drift—personal or corporate—is not more strategy, but the Holy Spirit.
Jesus made this unmistakably clear in the parable of the ten virgins. Ellen White writes:
“The oil is a symbol of the Holy Spirit… Without the Spirit of God, a knowledge of His word, profession of faith, and service, are worthless.” (Christ’s Object Lessons, p. 408).
All ten virgins had lamps. All knew the truth. All were waiting. All were active. Yet five were empty.
It is possible to know the truth and still be destitute of it.
The widow’s flask was not empty. The foolish virgins’ flasks were.
The Holy Spirit gives life, convicts of sin, teaches truth, empowers mission, and creates unity. He can be resisted, quenched, or grieved—but God longs to give Him freely.
Ellen White reminds us that Christ’s method is still the method:
“Practical work will have far more effect than mere sermonizing… Only the love of Christ can satisfy the soul.” (Christ’s Object Lessons, p. 415).
Mission drift is not corrected by louder voices or busier schedules. It is corrected when hearts go deeper.
For me, this message has been deeply personal. My prayer is that God will show me the high places in my own life—and give me the willingness to remove them. I drive a hybrid car, but I do not want to live a hybrid Christian experience. Do you?
May God plant us deeply—so we do not drift, but stand firm, rooted in Christ, filled with His Spirit, and faithful to the mission He has entrusted to us.
Jeremy Hall is a commissioned and a professionally certified NAD teacher serving as Vice President for Education for the Michigan Conference. Born and raised in Michigan, he attended Adelphian Junior Academy (AJA), Great Lakes Adventist Academy (GLAA), and Andrews University, where he completed a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s degree in community counseling. Jeremy and his wife Donna joined the staff at Great Lakes Adventist Academy in 2000 where they served in the boys’ dormitory. He served as GLAA’s campus chaplain and Bible teacher. Before coming to the Education Department he served as principal of Indiana Academy. The Halls have four children. It is Jeremy’s desire to do everything possible to support the principals and teachers as they minister to young people. He believes that never before in earth’s history has the mission of Adventist education been so important.